


in your shoes

by delgay



Series: fem ian/mickey 'verse [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Rule 63, cis girl!ian/cis girl!mickey, post-4x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgay/pseuds/delgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian doesn’t try to hold Mickey’s hand on the way home or anything gay like that, but she does walk as close to Mickey as she possibly can, their shoulders brushing with each step. Mickey wants to tell her thank you, for keeping her warm, for the shoes, for helping her beat the shit out of dad at his own damn “Welcome Home From Prison” party. She can’t really form the words, though, so she lets the backs of their hands brush together and hopes that’s enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your shoes

**Author's Note:**

> I went on a huge tangent all day yesterday about what Ian and Mickey would look like if they were girls, and was thus demanded to write fic. Blame for this goes mostly to [punkpadfoot](http://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpadfoot/pseuds/punkpadfoot), since she was the one who prompted a "night after 4x11" fic, plus everyone else who encouraged me to write this.

After Ian kisses the top of her head, Mickey sniffs, tastes blood in the back of her throat as she leans into the safety of Ian’s arms. Just a couple of inches, that’s all Mickey will allow herself to have right now, but it’s enough that her chest loosens up just that little bit.

"Come on, let’s go home," Ian urges quietly, squeezing one of Mickey’s shoulders in a way that Mickey would have decked her for a year ago. Instead, Mickey goes with the movement, sliding down from the hood of the car.

" _Fuck_ ," Mickey curses, because her heels broke shortly after she stomped down hard on Terry’s leg, and she’s been barefoot ever since. Now that she’s not running on pure adrenaline, she realizes just how sore her feet are. It doesn’t help that the ground is fucking wet, too, and freezing cold where it touches her skin. She doesn’t even want to think about all of the broken glass she’s going to have to pick out of her feet after they finally get back to Ian’s.

"Shit, your feet," Ian worries, "sit back down."

Ian has a point, so Mickey doesn’t argue with her. She slumps back down on the car behind her, letting Ian crouch down and wrap a hand around one of Mickey’s ankles to inspect her foot.

Sharp pain shoots through Mickey’s foot when Ian prods the bottom. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Mickey yells, pulling her foot away from Ian and glaring at her accusingly. “The fuck you trying to do?”

"Sorry, sorry," Ian murmurs sheepishly. "I was just trying to see where you were hurting." A chunk of her hair has sprung free from her ponytail and is hanging in her apologetic eyes, and something in Mickey’s stomach twists pleasantly.

"Could've just asked, asshole," Mickey mutters, brushing Ian’s hair out of her eyes so fast that a passerby could have blinked and missed it.

A smile works itself across Ian’s face, slow how it tends to when she’s really pleased. She bites it back after a few moments, clearing her throat. “Well, you can’t walk home like this,” Ian tells Mickey as she straightens up. “Want me to carry you?”

Mickey’s upper lip curls up. As if this whole night hadn’t been humiliating enough. “Fuck off. You ain’t carrying shit.”

Ian shrugs obligingly before bending her leg at the knee to pull one of her boots off.

"Whoa, hey, what the hell," Mickey argues as Ian holds out her boot for Mickey to take.

Ian holds it there patiently, waiting.

Mickey lets out a long breath as she considers. “And what the fuck are you supposed to wear?”

"I’ve got thick socks on. I’ll be fine," Ian promises.

Frowning, Mickey remains unconvinced. Her hesitance must be obvious, because Ian mutters, “For fuck’s sake, Mickey. Just take the damn boot.”

Mickey glares and snatches the boot out of Ian’s hand and shoves her foot into it. It’s not even close to fitting her, barely staying on her foot when Mickey lets her leg hang down. She has to flex her ankle up to even keep it on.

Ian gets her other boot off and holds it low enough so Mickey can slip her other foot into it. “They big?” Ian questions.

"You know they are," Mickey grumbles, and Ian rolls her eyes.

"You didn’t even try to tighten up the laces," Ian points out, doing it for Mickey so she doesn’t trip all the way home.

Mickey grumbles but she lets Ian do it anyway. She’s quick about it, at least, so it’s not all that embarrassing.

When Ian’s done, she has a smile on her face. She holds out her hand for Mickey to take but Mickey doesn’t, she just pushes herself off the car for the second time and winces when the boots hit the ground. The pressure hurts, but it’s not unbearable like the first time.

Mickey catches sight of Ian’s socked feet. The bottoms are already damp; it’s obvious from the contrast in color from the bottom to the top. They’re gray and do seem fairly thick, at least. Still, Ian looks ridiculous. Her ponytail can barely be called one anymore, since most of her hair has already fallen out of it. Her plaid shirt is rumpled beyond saving, and the knees of her jeans are dirty and threatening to rip. The socks are just the cherry on top, her big feet resting uncomplainingly on the pavement with her toes curled up slightly.

"You look like an idiot," Mickey tells Ian, shuffling past her so they can finally be on their way. It’s hard to walk; her feet can’t bend in the way they’re naturally supposed to, so she has to pick up her feet more than is normal. She feels like Frankenstein, all bloody and awkward and stitched up new.

Ian snorts. “Takes one to know one,” she replies, knocking her shoulder into Mickey’s.

Mickey rolls her eyes and returns the action, warming when she catches a glimpse of Ian’s eyes shining as she looks at Mickey.

They trudge to Ian’s place slowly; Ian holding onto her ribs and Mickey struggling to walk in Ian’s giant shoes. Something about being in them comforts her, though, so she can’t complain much. It’s a far sight better than walking home barefoot and getting her feet sliced open in the process.

Ian doesn’t try to hold Mickey’s hand on the way home or anything gay like that, but she does walk as close to Mickey as she possibly can, their shoulders brushing with each step. Mickey wants to tell her thank you, for keeping her warm, for the shoes, for helping her beat the shit out of dad at his own damn “Welcome Home From Prison” party. She can’t really form the words, though, so she lets the backs of their hands brush together and hopes that’s enough.

 

 

“What the fuck,” Ian says when they step into the Gallagher house to see about four kids sleeping in the living room. She goes rigid, obviously irritated, and mutters, “Hold on,” to Mickey before climbing the stairs quickly.

Mickey leans against the wall, watching Ian go. She feels so tired now that she’s stopped moving; she needs a shower and a bed more than she ever has in her life. Mickey is thankful when Ian comes back down a few moments later, but the feeling is fairly short-lived. “All the beds are filled,” Ian tells Mickey, “I don’t know who the fuck all these kids are, but they’re everywhere.”

"We can go to my place," Mickey replies, even though the thought of being in her father’s house makes her skin crawl. She largely prefers the warmth of the Gallagher home, even though there’s never any privacy, and she’d get better water pressure standing outside in the rain. Mickey hasn’t been back to her house since Ian attacked Kenyatta, and, to be honest, she wasn’t exactly planning on it.

Ian looks uncertain, studying Mickey’s face. “You sure?” she presses.

"Yeah," Mickey says, her voice hollow. "It’s fine."

"I just thought, after what he said—"

The mention of Terry sets Mickey off. "Fuck what he said," she hisses. "Let’s fucking go."

Mickey leads the way to the Milkovich house. It’s only about a five minute walk, and Mickey stomps the whole way there, hyper-aware of Ian right on her heels. Ian could catch up with Mickey if she wanted, probably, even in her socks, but Ian gives her space. Mickey is thankful, because she doesn’t want to snap at Ian, and she doesn’t want to fight anymore tonight. She doesn’t think she has any fight left to give.

Mickey opens her front door—they never lock it; any man stupid enough to steal from a Milkovich is as good as dead, anyways—and looks around. It’s quiet, strikingly so, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t get a huge lump in her throat from the possibility of her husband waiting for her.

"I’m gonna see if my room is empty. Stay here," Mickey tells Ian, brushing past the other girl to go to her room. Ian doesn’t stay, of course, because she’s fucking honorable that way, but she hovers a few feet behind Mickey, almost certainly waiting for Sven to appear so she has an excuse to punch him in the face.

Mickey stalks up to her bedroom door, flings it open. She’s not scared of Sven, but she is terrified of everything he represents. She still has nightmares about that fucking wedding dress Terry made her wear, about the veil wrapping around her throat and choking her, leaving her to wake up gasping for breath. Mickey unclenches her fists when her eyes fall on nothing but unmade sheets and dirty clothes littering the floor.

"Gonna go to the bathroom," Mickey grumbles, leaving Ian hanging back against the wall.

Mickey shuts the bathroom door behind her and tries to collect herself as she braces against the sink. She does her best to push back the flood of memories that threatens to overcome her. If she had more energy, she’d probably go through her room and tear out all evidence of Sven ever sleeping next to her. Mickey feels sick as she catches a glimpse at herself in the mirror, broken by her own hand. Her previously meticulously coiffed hair is completely ruined, falling into her face at odd angles where a few of the pins stubbornly hang on. Her face is a total mess, streaks of mascara mixing with blood and tears that she didn’t even realize she’d let go. When Mickey wipes her eyes quickly with the heels of her hands, they come back black and red.

Mickey lets out a harsh breath and runs her hands under the tap, rubbing them roughly together until the water finally runs clear. Her face is all streaky when she looks at herself again; it makes Mickey want to punch the other half of the mirror so she doesn’t have to look at her own face anymore.

Light rapping on the door makes Mickey jump. “Can I come in?” Ian asks from the other side of the door.

Rubbing her face a bit more, Mickey calls out a short, “Yeah.” She’s looking into the sink when Ian comes in, staring hard at the white porcelain when Ian wraps an arm around Mickey’s waist.

“You doing okay?”

“Fine,” Mickey snaps, regretting the harshness of her tone as soon as it leaves her lips. She’s just aching in places that even Ian’s kindness can’t quite reach. Ian moves to pull away, but Mickey grabs her wrist and holds her there. She meets Ian’s eyes in the mirror. Ian seems to get it, because her dark green eyes warm from defensive to understanding under Mickey’s gaze, and Mickey is so thankful that she almost starts crying again.

Ian pets her hand over Mickey’s hair once before starting to fish out the pins that are stuck all over Mickey’s head. Mickey winces whenever her hair is pulled, but she stays quiet for the most part, letting Ian do her work. 

Once Ian’s satisfied with the state of Mickey’s hair, she asks, “Shower?”

Mickey sighs longingly. She knew there was a reason she stuck around Ian for this long. The girl has some pretty good ideas every once in awhile. “Please,” she answers, and Ian kisses her temple softly before moving away to turn the water on.

It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to get their clothes off, but they eventually tumble into the shower together, shaky on their feet and gripping each other’s arms for support.

Mickey steps into the spray first, tilting her head back and closing her eyes while she soaks her hair. Some water runs down her face, and she feels the stickiness of blood loosen with it. The cuts next to her nose and on her forehead start burning, though, and she winces uncomfortably.

“Let me wash your hair,” Ian says suddenly, moving her hands from Mickey’s arms to rest lightly on her waist.

Mickey brings her head back up and looks at Ian, who’s got this earnest expression on her face that Mickey has a hard time facing. “You finally gonna stop babying me if I do?” she questions.

Ian gives Mickey a crooked smile, and Mickey softens, just that little bit. “No promises,” Ian admits.

“All right, all right,” Mickey allows, even though she has a very specific hair routine that she’s spent years perfecting, and she knows Ian won’t be able to do it just right. But it’s not a big deal, Mickey decides. It’s just hair. Who gives a fuck.

Ian drags her fingers through Mickey’s scalp, massaging gently as she works shampoo and conditioner into Mickey’s hair. Mickey’s all loose and pliant by the time Ian’s done, eyes drooping. She leans against Ian’s body sleepily, and Ian chuckles.

“We’re not done yet,” Ian points out handing Mickey a bottle of body wash.

Mickey grumbles, but she takes the bottle from Ian and squirts some on her hand. Mickey figures since Ian’s standing in front of her, Mickey might as well wash her. She runs her hands over Ian’s freckled shoulders, rubbing down her strong arms and back up to palm Ian’s breasts. Mickey massages them gently, drawing a low noise from Ian’s throat.

“Don’t get any ideas, Gallagher,” Mickey tells Ian.

“You’re the one playing with my nipples,” Ian points out breathily.

“Minor details,” Mickey mutters, moving on to wash the rest of Ian’s body. Ian makes happy little noises as Mickey continues, seemingly pleased by the attention, even when Mickey accidentally brushes past Ian’s ribs and makes her wince.

Ian washes her own hair, after, while Mickey washes herself. She washes her face carefully, avoiding her cuts as much as she possibly can. When they both finally finish, Mickey has never been so ready to go to sleep in her life. She knows she still has things to sort out, that her troubles are far from over, but she think she’ll sleep easily tonight with Ian next to her. 

They move from the bathroom to rifle through Mickey’s drawers for stuff to wear to bed. Mickey settles on a big t-shirt that used to be Jamie’s. Ian picks out a shirt for herself and tugs it on; it’s a tank top that’s too small and hugs her body in a way that’s just unfair, riding up high enough that a good portion of her toned stomach is visible.

“You do know I have bigger shirts than that, right?” Mickey questions, eyes lingering on how the fabric stretches too tight over Ian’s breasts.

Ian smiles broadly while her eyes crinkle in the corners. “I know. But I like this one,” she comments.

Mickey scoffs. "Whatever you say, princess," she drawls, and Ian swoops down to press their mouths together, so gently it barely even hurts Mickey’s bruised mouth. Mickey soaks up the feeling of Ian’s hands gripping the back of her shirt tight in her fists, and Mickey rises up on her bruised toes to push harder into the kiss. Mickey has to pull back after a moment because of her throbbing lip, but she smiles through the pain. She would gladly deal with a lifetime of split lips, as long as she got to have Ian look at her like that after, all fond with that crooked grin she’s had perfected since she was fifteen years old.

Mickey tosses a pair of her underwear at Ian before pulling some on for herself. After weeks of wearing Ian’s panties over at the Gallaghers, it doesn’t seem remotely strange. Ian steps into the black boyshorts Mickey had given her and pulls Mickey towards the bed, looking way too good than she has any right to after the night they’ve had. Ian’s face got away with nothing but a barely bruised cheek; the blood that had been caked onto her face before must have been all Terry’s. Something about that fact makes Mickey pull Ian impossibly close once they climb into bed, even though it hurts.

“I’m so proud of you,” Ian whispers once they finally settle into a sleeping position they’re both mostly comfortable with: Ian on her back, with Mickey curled into her side.

“Shut up,” Mickey grumbles sleepily into Ian’s neck. As far as timing goes, Ian’s not exactly the best.

“I’m serious,” Ian presses, running her fingers through Mickey’s wet hair. “You’re so brave.”

Mickey’s throat tightens uncomfortably. No one, not in her whole life, has ever called her brave. Whether she was born unfit for kind words or just told she that was, she doesn’t know. “Whatever,” Mickey mutters, closing her eyes. She’s too tired to deal with whatever Ian’s trying to do right now.

Ian sighs loudly.

Mickey’s eyes shoot open at the noise. “Don’t do that,” she frowns.

“‘M not doing anything,” Ian retorts, voice too rough to be convincing.

It’s Mickey’s turn to sigh. “I’m trying, okay?”

Ian is quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, I know,” she finally says, her tone thick with apology.

Mickey presses up onto her elbow to look down at Ian. It doesn’t seem fair. That someone as sweet and good as Ian Gallagher somehow wound up chained to someone as fucked up as Mickey. There’s so many things that Mickey wants to tell Ian; that Mickey wants to give her the world, that Mickey would kill for her, that she is the best person that Mickey has ever known. She doesn’t have the words, though; words could never be good enough for all the things that Mickey wants to tell Ian.

Mickey leans in and kisses the apprehensive look off of Ian’s face, kisses her long and hard even though her lip is stinging from the contact. Ian kisses back like she’s drowning, and maybe she is. Mickey just kisses Ian until they’re both satiated, until they’re pulling back and panting from the intensity of it.

“Okay?” Mickey asks.

Ian blinks slowly and gives Mickey a small smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

Mickey sighs in relief. “Good,” she murmurs, settling back down into the safety of Ian. Mickey drifts off with Ian tracing shapes on her back, sleeping easily in her own bed for the first time since Ian left.


End file.
